Excerpt from The Stonefolds
The ragged heather-ridge is black
Against the sunset"s frosty rose;
With rustling breath, down syke and slack,
The icy, eager north-wind blows.
It shivers through my hair, and flicks
The blood into my Это и многое другое вы найдете в книге The Stonefolds (Classic Reprint) (Wilfrid Wilson Gibson)